


Buts and Nolts

by eyemeohmy



Category: Transformers: Robots in Disguise (2015)
Genre: Consent Issues, Darkfic, Gen, Spoilers, Squicky, Torture, Violence, this is not a happy fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-19
Updated: 2015-03-19
Packaged: 2018-03-18 13:44:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,567
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3571784
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eyemeohmy/pseuds/eyemeohmy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A mechanic is nothing without his tools. It doesn't help when the tools try to fight back.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Buts and Nolts

**Author's Note:**

> Fic takes place episode 1x04; I took some liberties with a few things (including CS's accent), but seeing this is fanfic, that's bound to happen anyway. I applied some of the Minicon lore and whatnot from the Unicron trilogy; mostly Armada.
> 
> I don't wanna say the violence is too over-the-top as it's not that gory, but let's play it safe.
> 
> Dedicated to my friend, Narco; you da besss.

The Minicon had done nothing but beg and plead while flailing around inside Chop Shop's trunk shortly after his combiner teammates rejoined. Though he'd tuned most of the whining out, by the time he arrived at base, transformed, Fixit locking back into place on his arm--

"Will you jus' bloody _shut up_!?"

Fixit squealed, not prepared for the sudden face full of wall as Chop Shop slammed him down.

Chop Shop pulled back his new arm, glaring at the Minicon. Fixit's optics rolled in their sockets, but he quickly shook it off; the look of terror returned, but this time his teeth were clenched, biting his tongue.

The Decepticon sighed, smiling crookedly. "That's much better," he chortled. Fixit whimpered as he was hung upside down, swaying lightly at Chop Shop's side as he approached his work bench. Righty was there, already sorting through the tools.

"Won't be long before we're off this rock," Chop Shop said, smiling at his spider-companion. He received an equally wicked grin back.

Then--

"Um."

"If you start screamin', so 'elp me--"

"N-No, no, please! Just hear me-me-me out!" Fixit pleaded, crossing his arms over his head just in case he'd get reacquainted with the wall.

Chop Shop glared down at the Minicon; Fixit twitched as he was sat upright again, face to face with his former prisoner now. "You... You have your right arm back," Fixit said, gesturing to the spiderbot. "You don't feed--speed-- _need_ \--" He paused to slap a hand to his chest. "--Me anymore!"

Chop Shop had noticed the strange speech impediment from earlier. "But it gets lonely out there in space," he sighed, "what if I wanted some company?"

Fixit blinked, making a confused face. "You... would be lone--"

"No, you daft moron!" Chop Shop snapped and his new arm recoiled from him. "You think jus' cause I don't need you anymore, that I'm just gonna let you roll outta 'ere all willy-nilly?" He barked sharp laughter, four optics narrowing. "No wonder the _Alchemor_ crashed, what with a total numbbolt like you'n charge."

Fixit frowned, browplates furrowing. "N-Now, that wasn't--"

"Yer stickin' wit' me, little bot," Chop Shop interjected, "an' if you stay on your best behavior, I might even drop you off on the first moon in the next galaxy over."

"You--you can't!" Fixit cried. He shook his head, determined to look determined. And not scared. Even though he had sprung an internal oil leak twice now. "I'm-- I won't help you! I refuse!" He folded his arms stubbornly across his chest. "I'm an Autobot! And you're a prisoner of the Autobot maximum security ship _Alchemor_! And it won't be long until the brothers--smothers-- _others_ \--!"

Fixit gasped, his arms suddenly flying open.

"I think you got our roles reversed, Minicon," Chop Shop said. "You're _my_ prisoner now."

Fixit growled, "But I won't help you! No matter--!" Suddenly, his digits were covering his optics. He tried to pull them back, but his arms stayed firmly in place. "What--"

"You think y'got yourself a choice, mate? Y'think you're in control 'ere?" Chop Shop snickered.

Fixit's fingers slowly pushed into the edges of his sockets, attempting to pull his optics from his head. He screamed, but couldn't move--everything was locked into place, his strings puppeteered by the mech he was attached to. 

"You won't be needin' these," Chop Shop said softly.

"Please!" Fixit cried, and his armor rattled as he struggled to regain control; one optic started to dent, giving into the pressure. "S-S-Stop!" One of Fixit's hands dropped, clutching and strangling his own throat. He gagged, freed optic widening with a flash.

"Won't be needin' that either," Chop Shop chuckled.

Righty watched with a gleeful impish smile, rubbing his forelegs together.

Chop Shop finally let up--Fixit exvented, heavily, hands falling weakly at his sides. His dislodged optic remained half-closed, the shutters frozen.

"In case that wasn't a reminder enough of just where you stand," Chop Shop said, "let's not forget what you _really_ are. A Minicon. Nuttin' but drones with a protoform level sapience chip. Your kind are meant to be used." He paused, three optics narrowing. "Kind of like..."

Fixit shrieked as he was shaken; his right arm transformed from hand to giant screwdriver. "That's what I figured," Chop Shop chuckled. "A tool with tools. Probably got yourself a whole buncha surprises up your sleeve. Won't even need t'steal tools no more when my arm can just--" He shook Fixit again; the screwdriver changed into a large wrench. "Bloody beautiful."

Fixit swallowed loudly, fingers back in place. He tried comming the team again, but nothing. Something was disrupting his commlink system. "I'm not a tool," he insisted, though his voice was quiet, "and Minicons-Minicons-Minicons aren't just... objects or-or drones! We're just as equal as--"

"Noticed how your li'l body so easily attached t'mine? Noticed how quick it took me to control an' assimilate your motor functions?" Chop Shop interjected with a sneer. "You were built to _serve_. If anythin', to only make _us_ stronger by enhancin' our abilities."

"It's not true!" Fixit exclaimed in a strained whine. "It's not-not true! I'm a valuable member of team humble--stumble-- _Bumblebee_!"

"Gotta give them Autobots credit," Chop Shop said, nudging his detached right arm playfully with an elbow, "putting up with this loose bolt wifout disablin' his voice box."

Fixit squeezed his fingers closed, shaking. "The Autobots are on their way, and you can fight them as much as you want, but they will win, and you will go _back_ to your stasis pod where you belong!"

Chop Shop studied the Minicon, face impassive. Fixit's browplate twitched, but he refused to break eye contact, as terrified as he was.

"Doesn't surprise me they don't just open you up an' download all the info they need," Chop Shop said, "strip you of that stubborn little spark of sentience. Prolly don't have the skills." A cruel smile split his face. "But I do."

Fixit blinked his one wide eye; he cried as he was suddenly ejected from the Decepticon's shoulder. Before he could hit the ground, Chop Shop grabbed him with his single hand, pinned him dow, hard. Just one giant hand splayed across his chest was enough to control the Minicon; Fixit struggled nonetheless, tugging at larger fingers.

"Let me go!"

"It's a quick procedure," Chop Shop said, "it won't hurt you." He pressed down, and plating along Fixit's torso creaked. He coughed, chest armor pushing against his spark chamber. " _Much_."

Righty scampered over, towering over Fixit with a leer. He forcibly ripped a sheet of plating from the Minicon's head, exposing mesh, dermal plating, and two pairs of input and output sockets.

"Just cross a few wires, snip a few cables, tweak a few buttons," Chop Shop chuckled, "an' you won't feel anythin' anymore. You'll serve the real purpose you were made t' 'ave."

Fixit suddenly felt dizzy, didn't realize he was hiccuping. "N-No!" he choked, turning his head, pressing the bare patch to the ground. "I won't-- I'm not-not-not a tool!" He squeezed his optic shut, the other still partially open. "I'm an Autobot! My team needs me! They're going to aschew--crew-- _rescue_ \--" He hacked, spitting up coolant. "--M-Me!"

"Yanno, Fixit, was it?" Chop Shop decreased some of the weight on the Minicon. "I gotta admire your strength. An' since your friends won't be finding my base any time soon..." All at once, he lifted his hand and stepped back.

Fixit pushed himself up on his elbows, blinking.

"If you think you can handle it, try an' leave," Chop Shop said, tilting his head at the closed doors.

"You're... You're trying to trick me..." Fixit rubbed his busted optic, managing to dislodge his bottom lid.

"You humored me," Chop Shop chortled, "I'll humor you. If you think you can get past me, an' my li'l pal 'ere," he gestured his single hand at Righty, the spiderbot moving to guard the door, "then you're free t'go."

Fixit grunted; it took him a minute to get back on his wheels. His entire body ached, backstrut throbbing, a pounding in his head. He looked from Chop Shop, then to Righty.

"What's the matter, Autobot?" Chop Shop sneered; his foot suddenly stomped right beside Fixit, sending the Minicon reeling away. "You're part of the team, right? So _fight_."

"My expertise is certainly--"

"Righty's about your size; even smaller, an' I've only got one arm," Chop Shop laughed. "I say that makes us about fair."

Fixit swallowed. He turned on his wheels, facing the door. Righty hopped back and forth on his numerous legs, ready to fight.

"Runnin' out of time, Fixit," Chop Shop noted, tapping his helm. "I got things I need t'do. So, fight an', well, inevitably die a very painful, pathetic death, or accept reality. Which will it be?"

Fixit shook. His fingers curled against his palms, worrying bottom lip between his teeth. He glanced at the nearly completed space ship. It became clear, then--optic ridges furrowing, he transformed his hand into a drill, and sped as fast as he could for the ship. He wound his arm back, ready to slam the spinning tool into the engine--

Fixit screamed, his left wheel suddenly blown out, exploding with a loud _pop_. He spun in clumsy circles, away from the ship, before tipping over. Fixit groaned, opening his good optic; he looked down at his wheel. Completely flat, and the blast had even taken out some of his fender.

"Very nice, Minicon!" Chop Shop cackled, sauntering over. He reached down, picking Fixit up by his head. "Take out my ship, keep me 'ere longer; think sooner or later, your Autobot mates will sniff me out. You were going to sacrifice yourself, give up your only chance of leavin' 'ere alive. Must be one of your drone subroutines--protect yer masters, even at the cost of your own spark."

"Y-You weren't going to let me leave!" Fixit growled. He grabbed at the hand around his head. "But guess what? You're not going anywhere, either."

"Don't make me break my brand new toy, love," Chop Shop sighed, letting Fixit's head go and catching him by the swinging, whirring drill. He squeezed it tight; it ground to a sickly stop, and Fixit was forced to retract it lest it break. "An' I beg t'differ. Just a few more hours, an' she'll be right as rain." He nodded fondly at his makeshift ship.

"Ha!" Fixit laughed, only to hoarsely cough after. "B-By then, Bumblebee and the others--"

Chop Shop leaned his face in real close. Fixit eeped and went completely still, more from surprise than fear. His four yellow reflections in those wicked optics made his spark skip a pulse, however. "Remind me: soon as we hit this mudball's atmosphere to get rid of that nasty li'l vocalizer of yours. It's givin' me a real pain."

Fixit swallowed, frown twitching. "Is it? W-Well, then, allow me to tell you a story! A nice long story all about the shots--blots-- _Autobots_! And their triumphant but _always inevitable_ victory over the Deceptic--"

"Righty," Chop Shop sighed, and tossed Fixit across the room. He hit the ground rolling, stopped by a few feet. "See if you can calm 'im down. Nothin' permanent."

Righty giggled, skittering over to the fallen Minicon.

Fixit pushed himself with wobbling arms; when he looked up, his optic nearly popped from his skull. Righty was suddenly on top of him, pinning the Minicon on his back. He clamped two forelegs down on Fixit's hips, pumping him full of electricity.

Numerous error programs popped open on Fixit's HUD, only to disappear in flashes of static. His screams were interrupted with belches of white noise. Fixit's sensor-receptors fritzed in and out, one minute numb, then itchy, then full on searing pain. Smoke wisped from seams; patches of cranial armor popped free from his exposed head-wound, energon streaked with translucent fluid seeping from two of his sockets.

Righty dismounted the Minicon just in time to avoid being splashed in vomit. The contents of his tanks were warm, congealed, bubbles forming then bursting across his steaming torso, still releasing static volts of electricity.

Fixit invented, exvented heavily; a few of his ventilation fan-blades were stuck, could not open. He couldn't see, both optics now completely blind. Something that tasted like innermost energon stuck hard and sticky to the back of his throat.

Words were blurred, unintelligible noises in his resetting audiols. He closed his optics, but the same darkness greeted him when he next opened them.

Except, it seemed, it hadn't been just a moment--his chronometer, though a little glitched, informed him Fixit had been out for nearly ten, fifteen minutes now.

Fixit could... feel. His body was moving, but... It felt... It felt involuntary. Like he was stuck inside a shell he could no longer control. His fingers were moving, adjusting objects--some he recognized merely by tactile sensory, others he would need to see to identify--and...

It felt involuntary because it _was_.

A small little ghost in a cavern of darkness inside of himself. Fixit summoned a diagnostic scan--he'd need repairs, but nothing too major, fortunately. There was a secondary program, something installed by force--Fixit's wouldn't be able to access his motor functions, impossible from the damage. But Chop Shop could--Chop Shop was accessing only the barest of his programs available when on auto-pilot.

All he needed.

Fixit's input was not one of them. He knew he was too weak to fight the hold over him, but...

"M'not... I'm not a tool..." Fixit whispered. He tried to override Chop Shop's invasive programs--too weak too weak to fight too weak--only to be forced back into submission. "I'm not a tool!" he snarled, though his voice did not reach his lips. Just echoed in his tired spark. A husk now, he probably looked dead attached to Chop Shop; the undead, like those insane, horrifying Earth movies. Alive but not.

"Let me out!" Fixit shouted, beating against the forcefields containing him. His optics widened, entire chassis shaking--at least the part of him still in control buried deep inside. Anger melted into pure fear. "You can't do this! You have no rrr--rrrr--" Fixit struggled to finish the word, furiously beating both hands to his chest. " _Rrr_ \--!" The word wasn't coming; damn this glitch, _damn his helplessness--_!

Something flashed across his diagnostic screen.

It was written in Decepticon, but he was able to read it. Though Fixit wished he couldn't.

A TOOL IS A TOOL

"I'm not a tool!" Fixit snapped. For the sixth, eighth--he couldn't remember how many times he tried waking himself back up, re-assuming control. But like all the other attempts, this one failed, too. "I'm not a _t-t-t-tool_!"

The words on the screen flashed and then repeated, over and over, a block of never-ending A TOOL IS A TOOL IS A TOOL IS A TOOL IS A TOOL IS A TOOL...

Fixit recoiled from the screen, turning away. He placed his hands to his head, shrunk into himself. Closed his optics.

It would be okay. He knew that. Bumblebee and Strongarm and Grimlock and Sideswipe were on their way. Maybe Denny Clay was, too. And they would stop Chop Shop. And they would save Fixit. He just had to wait.

Just wait and try not to succumb to the mounting shadows.


End file.
